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Personal Narrative: Juvenile Justice

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“Robbery and assault are serious offenses,” the judge pronounced. The room fell silent, except for the obsolete ceiling fan gyrating above. Trembling before the judge, Andre glanced up to notice the judge’s long, silvery hair before careening his eyes to a dark corner.
He mumbled, “Yes, your honor.” An alternative scenario entered Andre’s mind, in which he explained the truth: “Your honor, it wasn’t me. I don’t steal, and I’m a complete stranger to violence.” However, reality returned. Andre felt as though the justice system was against him, that the world was in hot pursuit, demanding blood.
After studying her papers, the judge declared, “Twenty years in prison; five years on probation.” Like a bullet, the words pierced Andre’s …show more content…

“I’m justified to give him thirty years in prison.” As the judge stared sternly, the lawyer packed his briefcase to signal surrender.
Lying helplessly on the floor, tears streamed down Andre’s face. “Where is Liberty?” he moaned.
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“You know why you’re here, son?”
Cody glowered as he lied to his principal’s face: “No, sir.” The principal pulled a frayed, wrinkled t-shirt from his desk drawer, tossing it to Cody. The vivid red, white, and blue fell into his lap. “Cody, this type of clothing isn’t allowed here. Our school desires to be an inclusive place, and some students don’t identify with American culture.” As Cody considered the shirt, his principal gently placed one hand on Cody’s shoulder. “Promise me you won’t wear this shirt again?”
Summoning courage, Cody spoke: “With all due respect, sir, the American flag isn’t offensive.”
The principal sighed. “Cody, it’s difficult to explain, but...”
Cody stood up and interrupted: “My grandfathers died for this flag; they died for my freedom to wear it proudly.” As the principal stared at him motionless, Cody stormed out of the office, throwing the shirt over his shoulder. “Where is Liberty?” he …show more content…

She bent down to examine the vibrantly colored squash and smell the freshly picked blueberries. As Hurriya picked her knees up from the dust, her head violently twisted to the right, and the ground seized her. With her eyes directed at the blinding sun, Hurriya noticed the top of her head was exposed to the gentle wind. She turned and noticed her hijab lying next to her; it was her dignity and faith. “Help!” Hurriya screamed as tears welled up in her eyes. Swiftly searching the crowd for help, Hurriya noticed a man walking toward her with a sardonic front. A racial slur flew from his lips and violently pierced Hurriya’s ears. With a finger extended outward, he sternly spoke: “Leave my

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